


The Greatest of These

by katerina04



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Kattegat (Vikings), M/M, Minor Violence, Possessive Behavior, Sexual Content, Vikings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29964831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katerina04/pseuds/katerina04
Summary: Ivar never imagined he'd find someone worthy to stand by his side. Until he finds the mate of his dreams in the least likely place.
Relationships: Heahmund/Ivar (Vikings)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	1. The Beginning

Ivar had no reason to love. He was past that, he had transcended that weak and useless emotion. And he most certainly didn't need a mate. When he had been born, sickly and deformed, his father had wanted to kill him, to put him out of his misery. Surely such a child would never have any kind of life, especially in the dangerous world of the Vikings. But his mother had saved him, doted on him, and believed he would one day do great things. As his older brothers courted beautiful and fierce omega women, he had simply stood by and watched, unable to join in the fun. And so when he presented as an alpha at the age of fourteen, his brothers had been shocked, expecting their crippled younger brother to be an omega. 

Instead, his anger and violence had only grown, suspending whatever need he had for love and companionship. After his brothers gifted him Margrethe, the omega slave girl, and his manhood didn't harden, and his knot didn't rise, he gave up entirely on the idea of a significant other, mate or otherwise. His mother, the proud Princess Aslaug, had never approved of any woman or omega, never believing any of the potential mates around him beautiful enough for her favorite son. It never bothered Ivar, because he never intended to marry a woman and have children anyway. He had better things to do; like work hard enough to make his brothers forget that he was a cripple, and prove to his father that he could take on his legacy. But instead, when his father finally returned home, he had snubbed Ivar and only concerned himself with his youngest son when all the others turned him away. But that didn't matter now: his father was dead at the hands of King Aelle, his mother had been murdered by Lagertha, and the sons of Ragnar were more often than not at odds with each other. 

He no longer needed to prove himself to anyone; he had led the Great Heathen Army against King Aelle and Ecbert, slaying both for their crimes against his father. It was his tactical genius that had outwitted the Saxons, and secured for the Vikings York and the surrounding lands. Everyone feared him, especially after he showed his willingness to kill Sigurd. Ubbe had just barely been able to stop him from hurling that axe. But that was in the past now. Ivar wanted to conquer the entire world, he wanted to be famous, and he wanted people to fear him. Hundreds of years on, when people dug up his bones, he wanted them to say 'Here are the bones, of the most famous Viking to ever live'. And so that was how he found himself covered in blood, screaming, and once more defending his city from the unwelcome incursions of King Aethelwulf's Saxon army. Unlike other alphas, Ivar had little interest in the desires of the flesh, and rarely cared for one's second gender. His two bodyguards, White Hair and Olaf, were an Alpha and Omega respectively. If one could fight and was blessed in battle by the gods, why should Ivar not take advantage of their talent?

But when he sat there in the courtyard, for the entire world to see, that all changed. He met eyes with a rather beautiful man, what his designation was Ivar could hardly tell, but he guessed Beta or Alpha from his height and solid build. He was elegant in his violence, slaughtering man after man with a single stroke from his sword. His face was streaked with Viking blood, and his cross swinging on a cord around his neck, in tandem with his deadly movements. His well fitted black armor melded with his dark hair, plastered to his forehead as he pointed his sword at Ivar in challenge. It seemed for a moment like time stopped around them, as they faced each other head on. Even when several of Ivar's soldiers clashed together into the gaping space between them, the heated gazes being passed between the two men didn't stop. Until time started again, and the soldier went back to commanding the troops, screaming something into the air about "God conquers all" before calling for the Saxon army to retreat. 

Later that night, Ivar laid alone in his bed, furs pulled tightly around his body, thinking about that stranger. He hadn't been close enough to tell, but something told him that the stranger smelled like vanilla, with a faint trace of copper, like blood and violence. He thought of all the ways he could capture and torment the Christian warrior. Ivar wanted to harness that power for himself, he wanted the warrior at his side. Why, he couldn't tell. But something told him he needed that Christian, someone like him was valuable and could become an asset to Ivar's future military ambitions. And if the stranger was also easy on the eyes, what did Ivar possibly have to lose?


	2. Mine

The second time Ivar saw the warrior bishop, he didn't hesitate to take what he wanted. In the second battle for York, Ivar had managed to lure the Saxons into the city, making them believe that the siege had worked, that the lack of food and disease had forced the remaining Vikings to retreat. Instead, he had marshaled his forces underground, into the sewers left behind from the ancient Roman overlords, listening and waiting as the foolish Christians cried out that God had triumphed and York delivered. Ivar watched the Bishop, walking side by side with the king, over the sewage grates. He saw the Bishop's calculating gaze take in the rats above ground, and try to tell the King something wasn't right. But of course, Aethelwulf, the ultimate strong headed and arrogant alpha, had refused Heahmund's suspicions and led the army right into Ivar's trap. The Bishop was the only one not to walk right into it, proving to Ivar once more that he needed a mind like that on his side. A mind that shrewd and perceptive was the closest thing he had ever found to an equal match for his own intellect. So when the Vikings launched their attack from below, and the Saxons were caught completely by surprise, Ivar kept his eyes carefully trained on the Bishop as he made his ways through the bloody streets of York, bodyguards at Ivar's front and back the entire time cutting down anyone who came too close. From his steed, the Christian marshaled the troops, cutting down Vikings left and right with his sword, so unlike theirs, too long and seemingly unwieldy. Surely such a magnificent weapon was forged by the gods, and if Ivar captured the Bishop, not only would the Bishop be his, but so would the Bishop's sword. 

Watching the fight unfold before him, each piece falling into place exactly as he intended it to, Ivar was filled with pride. His plan was working to perfection, and soon both the battle and the Bishop would be within his grasp. As more and more Saxons fell, their morale clearly depleted as they faced certain defeat, the Bishop once more tried to raise their spirits, his pale blue eyes alight with fury and frevor unlike any warrior Ivar had ever seen. Entranced by the scene before him, Ivar's mind wandered back to what he remembered when he had been observing the Saxon camp, predicting their every move and their inevitable decision to take his bait. He remembered seeing the Bishop walking around the camp, engaging in a intense discussion with the king, Aethelwulf. The Bishop must have said something that Aethelwulf didn't like, because the king had firmly grabbed the front of the Bishop's armor, saying something sternly in his ear, and forcing him to kneel. The Bishop had instantly bowed his head in deference, his eyes pointed downward in apparent apology. But then he did something Ivar hadn't expected: he had turned his neck towards Aethelwulf, as if in submission. And suddenly everything became clear to Ivar: he had been able to smell the Bishop from so far away and had been so drawn to him because the Bishop was likely an omega. And an unclaimed omega at that. And from what Ivar could tell, the Bishop was a rare exception. It was well know that the Saxons did not believe women or omegas should fight, much less command troops and hold military rankings as high as this warrior bishop. Aethelwulf likely did not like being told what to do by an omega, his hubris overcoming his desire to win the battle. Coming to this realization, Ivar felt a deep panging in his chest, unlike anything he had ever felt before. And a pull in his nether regions he had never knew existed. Finding out that this great warrior was an omega as well nearly pushed Ivar over the edge, for the first time his inner wolf desired a mate and desired a partner. 

And so when the bishop had fallen from his horse, after the beast was shot in the middle of the battle, and nearly crushed beneath it, his chest heaving and coughing up spurts of blood from the pressure caused by the sheer mass of the animal against his ribs, Ivar had panicked. Yelling urgently to the rest of his soldiers, he had told them to stop fighting and give the bishop his horse. Unable to understand most of what Ivar was saying, the bishop had simply looked at him with confusion in his eyes and distrust in his stance. When he realized what Ivar intended to do, the Bishop had laughed, his beautifully blood stained face breaking open into a relieved smile. Before climbing onto Ivar's well-tended to horse, grunting as he hoisted himself up, he had turned back towards Ivar, giving him a mocking bow, chuckling when Ivar did the same. But before the Bishop could move the horse more than a few feet forward, Ivar gave the signal to capture him. Seemingly shocked, the Bishop was yanked off the horse, taking several Vikings to bring him to heel. Coming down from his perch above the battle, Ivar smiled internally at his good fortune. The bishop was finally his. The Bishop glared at him, held back from Ivar by two Vikings grasping his arms behind his back. Up close, Ivar was even more pleased. The Bishop was clearly older than Ivar, perhaps 23-24 years old. But his build was solid, his shoulders broad and muscular. In contrast, his limbs were long and elegant, especially his legs which were supported by shapely thighs that rounded out before reaching his strong calves. The only part of his body not covered by his black leather armor was his swan-like neck, exposed, and a perfect milky white in comparison to his dark hair and attire. Compared to his sinewy shoulders and chest, and his firm thighs, the Bishop's middle was tiny, like a child. His waist was nearly like that of a woman, before giving way to the more manly dips and curves of the rest of his body. His face was stained with dirt and blood, and his teeth were bared in anger at Ivar. His silky-looking raven black hair was cut short, giving Ivar a clear view of his facial features, even screwed up in anger. His nose was slender and equine, and his eyebrows sharply arched over his long eyelashes and sharp barely blue eyes. His lips were thin and drawn, but appeared soft to the touch. His jaw was quite strong in comparison to his narrow face and high cheekbones, the rest of his chin covered by a well-groomed beard now caked with blood. But once again, what caught Ivar's attention was the feral rage in his eyes, his entire being straining to get out, like Fenrir in chains. This was the kind of backbone Ivar needed by his side if he wanted to become the most famous Viking to ever live. And so when the Bishop refused to back down, an unmated omega and captive of Ivar the Boneless, but still lunging forward to scream in his face, something about "Heathens", Ivar had just laughed. Saying "Christian" back to him in the same insulting tone, watching with pleasure as the Bishop still trembled with unspent anger. With a wave of his hand, Ivar sent the Bishop to be taken away to his prison. Turning back to the rest of his army, Ivar screamed, his axe in hand, in celebration of another victory over the Saxons, the rest of his warriors and shield maidens joining in. Even his brothers nodded their assent to him, Sigurd and Hvitserk regarding him with reluctant respect. Taking the Bishop captive might have been an impulsive move, but Ivar didn't regret it one bit. He had his battle, his brothers, and he had his bishop.


	3. The Reckoning

It was nearly morning by the time Ivar left the feasting and merriment of his Great Hall for the Bishop's prison. His shield maidens and warriors had escorted the Bishop to a small but secluded hovel near the edge of York, hidden away from prying eyes and particularly, unwanted alpha attention. He had eight warriors stationed outside the prison and two inside, to guard the bishop at all times. He had claimed that it was to make sure he did not escape, but truly it was for the Bishop's own protection. He was an unmated omega surrounded by hormonal and dominating alphas, many of whom had not lain with lovers and wives in several months. The Bishop, especially wounded and chained as he was, would be a welcome target. He was Ivar's, and only Ivar's; he could not have him be spoiled by unworthy hands before he had his fun. And so when he came to the entrance of the small stone building where the Bishop was being held, he stopped for a moment, leaning back on his crutch to alieviate some of the pain in his bones after a day of intense battle. Taking a deep breath, he waved his hand to order the guards at the door to move aside and let him through. As one particularly large Alpha woman held the door open for him to enter, he ducked inside and bid them shut the door behind him. After dismissing the two guards stationed inside, he was alone for the first time with the Christian warrior. 

For the first few moments, Ivar said nothing. Simply observing the omega, a small part of him, perhaps his inner alpha, unhappy to see the omega so clearly in pain. The Bishop's entire body was splayed across the cold stone floor, his only source of warmth his black leather armor. His entire body shivered, from pain or the intense cold Ivar couldn't tell. His entire face was caked with dirt and blood, his short hair disheveled and tangled. And he simply looked at Ivar, his eyes hard but his breath shook and shuddered with how shallow and forced it was. His lips trembled, a single hand outstretched as if towards Ivar trembling with great effort. Until Ivar's eyes followed where his fingers were pointing to the broken carving of the Christian god on the cross scattered across the floor. Stepping closer, Ivar chuckled, taking his boot and crushing the figure beneath his feet. The first thing he needed to do was break the omega out of this ridiculous Christian nonesense, and turn him toward the Norse gods. As soon as he crushed the figurine, the Christian seemed to suddenly find himself still. He no longer breathed or shook or glared. He simply laid still, his eyes closed and his hands pressed to his chest. Until Ivar heard the English words being silently mouthed by the Christian: "The Lord is my Shepard, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures...Deliver me Lord from these godless heathens ". A burst of rage welled up in Ivar's chest at the Christian daring to do such a thing in his presence. Dropping to his knees and abandoning his crutch, Ivar pulled himself toward the bishop, gripping his dark hair tightly to stop his incessant chatter. Instantly, the Bishop quieted, his eyes once more fixed on Ivar with their burning gaze. Ivar returned the glare, giving the Bishop his most predatory smile. All the Bishop did was give a wolfish smile of his own in return. Deep down, Ivar was almost pleased that his chosen omega wasn't so easily made to cower and back down. But he needed to get control over the Bishop first, before he could appreciate his defiant nature. 

"Hello, pretty omega," Ivar said gently, his eyes intentionally betraying his more violent tendencies. Ivar watched for a reaction, however that indifferent gaze remained fixed to the Bishop's face. Ivar tried again, whipping out one of his carving knives to place against the Bishop's throat, his eyes alight with excitement.  
"Won't you entertain me? At least tell me your name," Ivar teased, his fingers running the blade's edge dangerously close to the Bishop's jugular. Instead of giving a direct response, the Bishop simply leaned forward, straining against his bounds that secured his hands and neck to the stone walls. And spit at Ivar's feet.  
"I don't entertain heathens. I know who you are, Ivar, son of Ragnar Lothbrok. And I do not fear you," the Bishop snarled, the corners of his mouth white with foam. Feeling deep rage burn throughout his entire body, Ivar acted on impulse. Taking his knife, he pressed the point into the Bishop's exposed neck, drawing crimson peals of blood, running down the pale white skin, until Ivar licked them slowly off that enticing throat. The Bishop simply trembled with great anger, unable to escape Ivar's reach from within his chains. His face simply twisted in obvious disgust. Ivar laughed at that, a deep throated laugh like he had when he sat before the entire Saxon army screaming loud enough to be heard by to the gods above. 

"Your God is not here Bishop. He had abandoned you. I am your god now. You, are mine," Ivar snarled back, his entire body shaking with an inhumanly feral rage. The Bishop didn't respond, simply clenching his teeth to restrain his sharp tongue. Ivar's inner alpha took pleasure in that, in having the omega finally in some way, yield to him. 

"Now, what is your name, omega?" Ivar asked with what little patience he had left. 

"Heahmund," the Bishop barked, his eyes cold with disdain, but his body slumping forward, probably spent from being chained and handled roughly without anything to eat. Ivar nodded, approval clear in his eyes. 

"Heahmund," he repeated, testing the syllables on his tongue, rolling the h. He liked the way it fit in his mouth, and he liked how it sounded coming off his tongue. 

"Well Heahmund. Now that you have finally calmed down, perhaps we can have a productive conversation," Ivar said mockingly, his eyes watching the Bishop for further signs of resistance. The Bishop-no-Heahmund, however, seemed calm and collected, his indifferent expression once more upon his features. Reluctantly, at least, Heahmund appeared to be listening and no longer seeking to tear out Ivar's throat with his eyes. So Ivar changed his plan of attack, realizing that perhaps brute force was not the way to go in recruiting this warrior to his side. In order to truly own Heahmund, all of him: his mind, his body, even his Christian immortal soul, he could not do so through fear, he realized. This was not something that could be demanded, but freely given. Sometimes his own cunning surprised even him. Calling for the guards stationed outside, he ordered them to bring food and some furs. With disdain and accusation clear in Heahmund's eyes, he accepted them nonetheless. And so Ivar began to speak, and although the conversation was one that seemed to instead enrage the Bishop more and inflame his religious sensibilities, they at least came to an uneasy balance. 

~~~  
"I fear no man. No matter how wicked," Heahmund said firmly, seemingly looking right through Ivar's very soul with an obvious emphasis on the word 'wicked'. Somehow those words made Ivar shiver, though he made no movement or expression to give Heahmund the sense that they did. He could not yet allow the omega to see what a hold he had over Ivar, already, when they hardly knew each other. Ivar wasn't stupid enough to believe that Heahmund wouldn't kill him and escape without a second thought if given the chance. He needed to earn Heahmund's trust first, and then hopefully his loyalty on the battlefield and in the bedroom. 

"People will tell lies about other people all the time, people they have never met. They will curse them and tell lies about them. Isn't that right?" Ivar asked curiously, all the time calculating and watching the Bishop's every move. Turning his head to the right, the Bishop nodded. 

"Yes. People tell lies about our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ," he rasped, his voice filled with deep sadness, as though this fact pained him more than anything in the world. Ivar smiled, even more amused by this man's strong but misguided devotion to his weak and inconsequential god. 

"Well, then, perhaps people lie about me too," Ivar suggested playfully, his eyes tracking the omega's incredulous look. 

"How would I know?" the omega challenged, his eyes hard with resolve, urging Ivar to say something else. What the omega expected, Ivar did not know. Instead he smiled, the Bishop finally giving him the opening to take what he wanted. His eyes widened with interest, captivated by the omega's continued unwillingness to back down, and his sly intelligence in forcing Ivar to let him live. 

"I will give you the chance to find out. You are coming on a journey with us," Ivar intoned, his smile widening slowly inch by inch. Before he turned to crawl back toward the door and take his leave for the night. He had gotten what he wanted: an opening to the rest of Heahmund, so that he could take ownership of him and all he had to offer. Pleased with himself, Ivar barely heard the omegas bitter response: "I'm already on a journey." With an amused grin, Ivar turned around to face the omega once more. 

Inching forward, he grabbed Heahmund's chin, pulling his face forward into a heated and aggressive kiss, although only lasting for a few tenuous moments. Amazingly, the Bishop revolted violently against Ivar only after the Viking had already pulled away, his mouth savoring the soft lips and welcoming mouth of the omega. Laughing at the Bishop's apparent distress, Ivar turned to leave again, his mind racing with pleasure and satisfaction more than he had ever quite experienced. His plan was coming together perfectly, and the Bishop was already on track to become his. 

"I just wanted to taste the violence on you," he told Heahmund simply, smiling through his own bloody teeth. And so with a final mocking retort, Ivar closed the door behind him.


End file.
